


You're My Sunshine

by TheNightComesDown



Series: Mother to Son [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Books, F/M, Family, Fluff, Queen AU, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 08:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17619272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: *Previously titled "Mother to Son", but I decided to use that as the series name!*As a single mother and owner of a small bookstore, you never imagined yourself meeting someone that would fit with your lifestyle - and you certainly never thought he would be the drummer in a rock band.





	You're My Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't posted anything recently! School and life happened. But here's my offering to appease the gods: the first bit of a multi-part series that will probably get a little steamy as we go forward. As always, please know that I have no ill intentions in writing about these characters. I have created fictionalized versions of all involved. Also...I'm posting this at 2am and did zero edits beforehand. I'll look through it again later today with fresh eyes and see if I can fix any grammar and/or syntax errors!

A pair of tiny feet thudded against the floor of the loft above the shop, sending tiny showers of dust down from the ceiling. The wheels of the rolling ladder slid across the hardwood, and in under a second, your son had clambered down onto the main floor.

“Mum!” Corin hollered, racing towards you. His hair stuck up at odd angles, and his brown eyes were bleary with sleep. In his fist he clutched his blanket, a tattered old rag that had originally been a hospital-issued receiving blanket. 

“Yes, dear?” you called over your shoulder. You were shelving a few new copies of a book you had ordered in from Canada, at the request of a local book club. 

“Mum, I’m soooo hungry!” he moaned, falling dramatically at your feet. “What are we having for supper?” Ignoring him, you made space for the last copy of Margaret Atwood’s Lady Oracle. The authoress had become quite well known as of late; you wondered if she was ever interrupted at work by her children’s proclamations of near-starvation. 

“I could have sworn you ate lunch not an hour ago,” you frowned, glancing at your watch. “But I suppose it’s getting towards supper time.” Your son wrapped his slim arms around your ankles, holding on for dear life as you attempted to shuffle towards the front of the store. “Go on and ask Aunt Meredith when supper’ll be ready,” you instructed, trying to step out of Corin’s grip. 

“Please, Mum,” he cried, “don’t let Auntie make Shepherd’s Pie anymore. I’ll die if I have to eat it again.” Corin’s hold on your legs grew tighter. Defeated by the weight of a 5-year-old around your feet, you leaned back against a shelf. 

“Corin,” you sighed, “Mummy’s got a bit of work to finish up, alright? I’ve got to finish this before five o’clock, and it’s already 10 past four.” Guilt crept into your heart as the boy let go of you and slunk off behind the front counter. 

“Fine, I’ll ask Auntie,” Corin grumbled, pushing his way behind the curtain that separated the shop from the rest of your house. 

“The Loft”, as your late husband had so aptly renamed it, was a corner bookstore that had been your father’s pride and joy. After your parents had both passed away, you had taken ownership and responsibility for the place. You had also taken up residency in the cozy little house attached to the shop. Your brother’s wife helped you around the house and in the shop a few days a week, but other than that, the The Loft and little Corin relied solely on you. 

“E’scuse me,” a voice at your shoulder asked. You turned to find a stout, sturdy man standing beside you. “Could I get a hand, please?” 

“Yes, sir?” you asked, looking down through your spectacles. The man was dressed smartly in a pair of black trousers and a lavender Argyle-patterned jumper. “Oh sorry, Lionel,” you huffed, reaching out to shake his extended hand. “Couldn’t quite see you there.” 

“Quite alright, Y/N,” he reassured you. “I’m just looking for that novel by Plath you recommended when I was here early in the week.” 

“The Bell Jar, isn’t it?” you asked, stepping behind the counter. From the ‘reserved’ shelf on the back wall, you picked out the copy you had set aside. “Here we are!” 

“Thanks for holding it for me, Y/N,” Lionel said, pulling out a jingling coin purse. “I can always trust you to have just what I’m looking for.” He poured the coins into his hand and picked out a fifty pence coin, which he slid across the counter towards you. 

“We appreciate your business, Lionel,” you smiled. “Come by when you’ve finished and let me know what you think.” On his way out, Lionel recognized some university friends sitting at a table in the corner, and sat down to chat. Students from the local colleges were regular patrons of the bookshop, as it offered a small seating area on the main floor. The loft area above provided alternative seating, namely a few large pillows and a beanbag chair (Corin’s favourite napping spot). 

With no books left to shelve, you had to find other activities to fill your evening. The store was open from noon to 9:00pm, and was relatively quiet in the mornings, but after work and school were out for the day, the number of customers tended to pick up. In anticipation, you brewed a new pot of coffee and refilled the kettle, which sat on a small hotplate on a table in the seating area. You restocked a basket with complimentary tea bags, opened another pack of biscuits, and replaced the bin of used mugs with clean ones. Once your sister-in-law Meredith finished making dinner, she would take over at the cashier’s station to give you break for supper. 

“Mum!” Corin called from the kitchen, disturbing the quiet ambience of the shop. You mumbled in annoyance as you stepped behind the curtain and into the dining room. 

“Cor, you know we can’t yell during store hours,” you reminded him. “We don’t want to disrupt people who are here for some peace and quiet.” 

“Sorry, Mum,” he apologized, his head hanging low. “I just wanted to show you the rock I brought home from kindergarten.” You kissed the top of your son’s head, and ruffled his hair playfully. 

“Let’s see this rock, then, shall we?” 

* * * 

At 5 minutes to close, you started to wipe the tables down for the night. Your darling little boy was fast asleep in the leather armchair, which you had pulled from the children’s section and placed beside the counter, where you could see him. One corner of his tattered blanket was in his mouth – he called it “blankie’s arm”, and sucked on it for comfort every night as he fell asleep. 

The bells hanging from the door handle jangled, and you looked up to see a blonde man with a pair of dark sunglasses atop his head. He appeared to be quite frazzled as he stepped in and pulled the door shut behind him. 

“Sorry, sir,” you called out, “but we’re closing in 5 minutes.” 

“Is it 9 already?” he exclaimed, glancing at his watch. “I guess it is. Sorry to bother, then.” He stood on the doormat, looking about the shop. His eyes, a sharp blue, flickered over the rows of shelves, and stopped on you. 

“Is there something specific you’re looking for?” you asked gently. Something about this man seemed familiar; maybe he had come in recently, seeing as he knew the shop hours. 

“Something, erh…” he stopped, trying to find the right words. “Something… academic? I’m trying to find a gift for a mate’s birthday. He’s quite a thinker.” You glanced over at the 5 bookcases of non-fiction, running your index finger beneath your lower lip as you tried to think of a good recommendation. 

“Is he interested in the hard sciences, or is he more of a philosophical type of fellow?” you asked, pushing a chair in as you strode over to the non-fiction section. 

“He studied space at college, astrophysics, if that helps,” he offered. “Sorry, I’m realizing that this an obscure request for a Friday night.” 

“No, it’s not a problem at all,” you smiled. “Owning the place gives me a bit of an advantage when it comes to knowing what sort of books we’ve got.” When you reached the shelf, you ran your finger along the spines, searching for a specific author. 

“You own this place?” he asked, coughing slightly to hide his surprise. 

“The apron hides it well, doesn’t it?” you smirked, smoothing down your green half-apron with one hand. “I’d wear something a bit nicer, but the pockets are really convenient.” With an “aha!” you pulled a book off the shelf, glanced at the cover to ensure that it was the one you had in mind, and handed off to the man beside you. 

“Mathematics and the Imagination,” he read aloud, raising an eyebrow. He flipped the book over and held it close to his face as he scanned the description on the back, placing his sunglasses (clearly prescription) onto the bridge of his nose as he tried to read the small lettering. “This sounds fucking boring.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you apologized. Your cheeks flushed red; you had thought this would be a good choice. “I can find something different, if this isn’t what you’re looking for.” 

“No, no! He’ll love it,” the man beamed at you, his eyes barely visible behind his sunglasses. You must have looked startled, because he pushed his sunglasses back into his hair and stepped forward, putting a hand on your shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, “I should have clarified right away. Bri is a huge math geek, and I’m sure he’ll get a kick out of what, uh” he paused, reading the front cover, “what Kasner and Newman have to say about mathematics. Thrilling stuff, you see.” His eyes held a mischievous glint, and he stuck his tongue out ever so slightly as he let out a soft laugh. 

“Glad we could find something that works,” you nodded, gesturing towards the cash register. 

“Ladies first,” he insisted, allowing you to pass by him and slip behind the counter. As you rang up the book, the man glanced over at the chair beside the counter. 

“Who’s this little fella here, eh?” he asked, smiling as he looked down at Corin, who was now drooling on the leather chair. 

“Not sure,” you shrugged, “found him outside a shop this morning and he looked like a cute little chap, so I brought him home.” Your mouth pulled up at the corners as you tried to hold back a laugh. 

“That’s fair,” the man nodded seriously. “Looks like he’ll be good at water polo or cricket when he’s older. Quite an asset, surely.” His eyes flicked up to yours, and you both burst out laughing. 

“He’s my son,” you said, once you had collected yourself. “He’s just turned 5, but he’s quite small for his age.” As you wrapped the book in brown paper for him, the man stared at you in surprise. 

“Surely you’re not old enough to have a boy his age,” he said, taking in your features in an attempt to determine your own age. “I can’t believe that you’ve got your own shop and a little one.” You pressed your lips together, wondering how you should respond. In the end, you went for honesty. 

“My husband and I grew up down the street from each other. We had a bit too much to drink at a party one night when I was 18…” you trailed off, leaving the rest to the imagination, “and this little guy came along shortly after.” You brushed a stray lock of hair from Corin’s cheek. “My whole life changed in a heartbeat.” The man watched you curiously, his eyes following your fingers as they trailed along your son’s warm, pink skin. 

“Does your husband run the shop with you, then?” he asked, trying not to seem overly interested in your answer. He chewed at his lip absentmindedly, drawing blood as he bit through the skin. 

“He’s gone, actually,” you said, your eyes snapping up to meet his. “Car crash.” 

“I’m so sorry,” he said sympathetically. You cursed yourself silently for bringing him up. It wasn’t a fact you enjoyed sharing. 

“He wasn’t a kind man,” you shrugged. “We’ve done alright for ourselves, me and Corin.” The man smiled down at your sleeping son, holding his purchase in his hand. He didn’t seem to be in a rush, and although it was 10 minutes past close by now, you didn’t feel the need to ask him to leave. 

“Would you have a cup of tea if I put the kettle on?” you inquired. 

“Are you asking me to tea?” he asked, a hint of teasing evident in his voice. “Don’t you want to know my name first?” Willing to play along, you stroked your chin thoughtfully for a moment. 

“Yes, yes, I suppose I could,” you replied, putting on a posh accent. “But a real gentleman wound introduce himself, don’t you think?” He cracked a smile and held his hand out, palm up, as if to receive you like the Queen herself. You offered your hand in a manner both dramatic yet delicate, and he gave it a gentle squeeze. 

“Roger Taylor at your service, Madam,” he announced importantly. “Would you do me the honour of escorting me to tea, Miss…?” 

“Y/N,” you replied, giving a small curtsy in return. “Certainly sir, right this way.” You realized after a moment that he was still holding your hand. He noticed as well, and he released you with an awkward laugh. 

“What do you take in your tea, Mr. Taylor?” you asked, turning the hot plate on. 

“One sugar, please. Wait, no,” he corrected himself, smirking slightly, “one and three-sevenths.” 

“One and a half is too sweet, but one and a quarter too bitter?” you wondered, smiling at the odd remark. 

“Certainly,” he nodded gravely. “And what does the lady take in her tea?” You set two cups on the table, accidentally brushing Roger’s fingers with yours as he reached for the cup. You shivered slightly, but didn’t know why; the room was warm enough. 

“The lady takes as much sugar as will dissolve in the tea,” you responded. “My grandfather always called it–” 

“Hummingbird tea?” Roger asked, perfectly finishing your sentence. “My gran called it that as well. As you get older, less sugar becomes more bearable.” 

“You can’t be much older than me,” you frowned, setting the teapot on the table. “I know I look young, but so do you.” 

“I was born in 1949,” he said, pretending to count on his fingers, “so that would put me at about 24 years old.” 

“Alcohol’s preserved you well, then,” you joked. This received an actual laugh, not just a smile. 

“Yes, I somehow made it through college without dying of alcohol poisoning,” he said with mock pride. “The crow’s feet are getting quite severe, but good old Fred reminds me to moisturize every morning.” 

“Tell me about Fred,” you requested. “You’ve heard my sad story about me and Cor.” As you said his name, you checked over your shoulder. Sure enough, the boy was snoozing away, one arm now hanging over the chair. “So what’s your story, Roger Taylor?” 

“Fred is my dear friend and roommate,” he said simply. “We live with a couple of other fellows we met at university, and we rent a shite apartment together near Imperial College, where Brian,” he said, tapping on the book he had bought, “studies space dust, or something like that.” 

“Did you go to college?” you asked. “You seem like a bright fellow.” 

“Dentistry,” he said, shuddering. “At least, that’s where I started out. Biology in the end, because at least that stuff’s more interesting.” 

“So sitting through a dentistry class is like having teeth pulled, then?” 

“Awful,” Roger shook his head. “That joke was awful. Stuck the landing on the delivery, but altogether poor.” You shrugged. 

“Can’t win ‘em all, can you?” 

“So yes, Fred and I live with Brian and John. We play in a band together, which is a riot, I’m sure you can imagine.” 

“Have I heard of you?” 

“We’ve had a few songs on the radio,” he said nonchalantly. “Put out an album this year. Took fucking forever to record, but we were happy with it in the end, I suppose.” 

“So if I go to the shops tomorrow, and I go into the record shop, I could find this album and listen to it?” you asked hesitantly. 

“Why would you want to listen to our record?” Roger asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Want to see if you’re any good,” you shrugged casually. 

“So if you listened to my record, would you tell me what you thought?” 

“I would,” you said. “Not sure I’d have anything worth hearing, because I know shit all about music. But I’d tell you what I thought, sure.” You scratched the back of your neck and glanced away. 

“So…” Roger said slowly, “you would want to see me again?” You glanced up at him. He looked almost nervous, you thought, chewing on his lip like that. 

“You’re going to make yourself bleed if you keep biting that,” you remarked. He ran his tongue gently over his bottom lip, tasting salt as he did so. 

“So that’s a yes?” “I think that would be…nice,” you finished. “You made me forget to lock up and its half an hour past close. So I guess that means that I liked talking with you.” 

“I liked talking with you, too,” he admitted. “I’m kind of late for Brian’s birthday party now, so he’s sure to be cross about that, but it was worth it.” Your eyes widened. 

“Are you telling me that you’ve known all this time that you’re late for the party?” you asked, incredulous. “Roger, that’s…that’s…really sweet, actually,” you realized, looking up at him. “I don’t know much about you yet, but I think you’re sweet.” 

“How sweet?” Roger asked, running his thumb across the back of your hand. He hadn’t meant for it to be suggestive, but as you locked eyes, you knew that were okay with the suggestion. Your stomach fluttered as he met your eyes, and unconsciously, his gaze shifted to your lips. His hand, which had been drumming against the tabletop, closed gently over yours; you couldn’t look away. For the first time in ages, you felt your pulse quicken between your legs. Roger leaned forward slowly, and you felt yourself lean forward against your better judgement. 

“How sweet?” you murmured, swallowing hard. Your faces were inches apart now, and all you had to do was lean forward on your elbows to meet his lips with yours. Roger’s breath was warm and minty, his lips parted ever so slightly with the effort of holding himself back. You glanced down as his nose touched yours, nudging you gently, as if asking for permission. 

The leather armchair behind you creaked, breaking the spell. Roger sat back in his chair, letting out a sigh of relief, or perhaps frustration. Your head whipped around, and you saw that Corin had curled himself up even tighter in the chair. The back of his pyjama shirt had ridden up as he moved, and you could see the tiny bumps of his spine standing out beneath his skin. Your heart ached with love for the boy, and it had been a long time since you’d shared any part of yourself with anyone but him. 

“I should go,” Roger choked out. “The boys’ll begin to worry if I don’t show up soon.” 

“Yes, of course,” you agreed quickly. “I’ll come lock up behind you.” Quietly, Roger pushed in his chair and quickly drained his cup of tea. He walked toward the door, leaving his book on the table. Rolling your eyes, you grabbed it and hurried after him. 

“Roger,” you said, reaching out to grab his arm. He turned around just before you caught him, and he stepped back. 

“If you touch me right now, we’re going to regret it later,” he warned. His eyes, previously crystal clear, had a darker tone to them now. With a slow nod, you held out the book. He took it, smiling slightly as you opened the door for him. Roger stepped out onto the pavement and turned to face you. 

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rising slightly in pitch, “I’ll see you soon, alright?” 

“Maybe you could come for tea again,” you offered. He nodded, and before you could say anything more, he was halfway across the street. 

* * * 

The next evening after supper, you were washing up the supper dishes in the sink. To Corin’s dismay, your sister-in-law had made Shepherd’s pie again, but he had eaten it politely without complaint. After sending Corin upstairs for his shower, you pushed past the curtain into the shop, where Meredith was perched on a stool behind the counter. 

“Busy?” you asked, finishing off the last bite of the tart you had kept hidden until you’d heard the water start in the bathroom above you. 

“Not bad,” Meredith shrugged. “But some fellow dropped this off for you.” She handed you a thin, weighted square. It was wrapped in brown paper and had no note. Curiously, you peeled the brown paper back to reveal a purple and black record sleeve. The front was emblazoned with one word: Queen. With a smile, you slipped the record out of the sleeve and admired the shiny black vinyl. 

“What’s that?” Meredith asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“Just something a friend offered to lend me,” you hummed. “Some local group he thought I’d like.” Meredith’s eyes widened slightly as she watched you. 

“Been a long time since you’ve…listened to music,” she said, pressing her lips together. “Might be good for you to try it out again.” 

“I think I might give it a go,” you replied, touching the grooves in the plastic thoughtfully. As you looked out at the shop, movement at the window caught your eye. Out on the sidewalk, a blonde man in sunglasses flashed you a wide grin before disappearing from view.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think! What will the reader think of Queen's first album, and where will she and Roger run into each other next?


End file.
